Crossing Lines
by Firazh
Summary: "What would you do if I told you that I don't want to die?" he says. "That I don't want to sacrifice myself for thankless idiots and mindless sheep?" Severus Snape has an unexpected conversation with Harry Potter. AU: One-shot, sixth year.


Disclaimer: All characters and recognizable story elements belong to J. K. Rowling.

AN: This is one of those: 'It's the middle of the night and I'd actually like to fall asleep, but by brain just threw this at me and if I don't write it down _now_ I'll have forgotten it by morning' stories. A little polishing, and voilà: another one-shot. Read, hopefully enjoy, and let me know what you thought of it.

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"Professor Snape? What would you do, purely hypothetically, if you were dissatisfied with your prospective role in this war?"

When did the infernal brat swallow a dictionary? But I doubt he is really talking about _my_ role. No, this is surely about himself. Like always, self-important little brat that he is. Time to cut him down to size and deflate that phenomenal ego ...

"Spare me the melodrama, Potter, you are hardly so important as to warrant 'a role'."

I watch him step forward into the light. He is even paler than usual, and his eyes are strangely dull.

"Unfortunately, I have recently learned things ..." the brat says slowly. "That leave no other possible conclusion but that I _do_ have one. Yet somehow I'd really rather not become a martyr."

"A martyr?" I scoff. Though it is not what I expected to hear him say, I have to admit.

"Yes," Potter replies tonelessly.

"Why should you possibly have to become one?"

In reply he bares his brow, pushing his bangs away impatiently. The scar stands out starkly against his pale skin. He sits down across from me, uninvited, all the while keeping my gaze.

"Do you know what a Horcrux is, Professor?" he asks me, with sudden intensity.

I cannot hide my dismay at his knowledge. Which of course gives away my own.

"Ah. You do. And you know _he_ made … several?"

In for a Knut, in for a Galleon. I nod, unwillingly.

"And do you also know what this is? Professor?"

He raps his knuckles against his brow. I must have looked as horrified at the implication as I felt, because his eyes narrow in satisfaction. He leans forward.

"You see, I'm the one he did not intend to make. The one he isn't even aware of, as far as I know."

No, the Dark Lord does not know of this, I am almost sure of it. But it explains so much. The connection they share. The Parseltongue. The visions that plague the boy. And the obvious conclusion.

"And thus, if Voldemort is to be vanquished," he smiles grimly at seeing me flinch at the name. "The boy-who-lived must play the good little martyr and _die_."

"Surely there is some other .." I begin feebly, but he interrupts me firmly.

"There doesn't appear to be. The only known way to destroy a Horcrux is to destroy the vessel. Well, or to make _him_," he laughs without humour. "Feel remorse."

His smile turns bitter at seeing my reaction. "Yeah, not terribly likely, is it?"

No, not really. I remain silent. This surprising turn of events has, for once, robbed me of anything to say. And certain puzzling aspects of Albus' plans and deeds are starting to make all too much sense. Like why the boy was never truly trained to face the Dark Lord. No need for it, after all, if he was meant to die from the start.

"But the old man made a mistake," he continues after a moment, not deterred by my silence. "He's worked hard to turn me into his little hero. Willing to sacrifice myself for others. With no concern for my own life, because no-one ever taught me any. Instead I was taught that my only worth was to sacrifice myself for others. For the Greater Good. For love."

The last is spoken with a bitterness that almost hurts. I stare at the boy in front of me, who is a stranger. A stranger wearing Potter's face. For the person who looks back at me now, through Lily's eyes no less, is someone I've never met before. Someone old, and weary, and bitter. And ever so cynical. He eyes me back, and his smile is deeply sardonic.

"But he miscalculated. He only thinks he knows my mind. My memories. My heart. But he never found the buried parts. _You_ never did, either. The parts behind the mask," he says, and his expression is both mocking and challenging.

Yes, it is a mask. I can see it now, and silently berate myself for my blindness. All the while, the brash Gryffindor was nothing but a mask. A role the stranger in front of me has played to perfection. What I do not quite understand is why he has chosen to abandon it in front of me now, after keeping it for so long. I finally find my voice again.

"Why come to me, though? Why tell me this?"

"What would you do if I told you I don't want to die? That I don't want to sacrifice myself for thankless idiots and mindless sheep?"

My eyes narrow. Sheep. His words sound bitter and full of contempt. And it is unexpectedly painful to hear the echo of my own thoughts from his mouth.

"What do you expect me to do? What could I do?" I nearly whisper. He stares at me. Suddenly smiles almost gently.

"I would ask you to re-examine _your_ role in this war, Professor."

I rear back in surprise. He laughs at me silently. And he has neatly turned back to his first question, reminding me that I have a role to play, too.

A role he apparently wants to cast in question.

I would feel incensed, normally, if it were not for the absurdity of this situation. For its impossibility. For what he is implying. Yet his gaze never wavers from mine. He means this. And I should not have been surprised. It is simply that the idea of a thoughtful, observant and most of all _subtle_ Potter is … staggering. And yet, that is undeniably exactly what is sitting in front of me. A Potter who is an enigma. A conundrum. Who knows too much.

"Why should I do this?" I finally ask. "Why should I turn everything on its head? Go against the sacrifices I made?"

He gives me that gentle smile again. It should be infuriating. Instead it is making me feel apprehensive. Because he might give me a valid reason.

"But you made those sacrifices for her sake, didn't you?"

My breath catches. Yes, he might indeed.

"I talked with Professor Slughorn, you know. He told me about you and my mum."

He nods sagely when I simply stare at him.

"And you know, I do remember her death."

I continue to stare in shocked disbelief.

"Yeah, I do. Every time I'm near a Dementor," he explains, his eyes clouding over in pain, the smile fading from his face. "He asked her to step aside. Told her she need not die, if she handed me over. I always used to wonder why he did that, you know ..."

He knows. Somehow he knows what I asked the Dark Lord for. And yet there is no blame in his voice.

"And that's why it was a sacrifice in the first place. Because he was going to spare her, but she persisted in trying to protect me."

So the Dark Lord actually did as I asked him too. I feel chilled to my heart. Still, she died. So her son could live.

"But how is it honouring her sacrifice … if I let myself be killed now? Even if it is to vanquish," I flinch again. "Her murderer?"

His eyes go hooded, and he lowers them. "What is the worth of revenge? Nothing can bring back the dead," he says in a voice devoid of emotion. "But maybe something can prevent there being _more_ unnecessary deaths?"

He has a very good point, loath as I am to concede it. I know perfectly well what he is suggesting. It would effectively end this war. Albus' plans could not continue with his sacrificial piece gone. And myself, of course. Between the two of us, we hold too much of his strategy. Especially since Albus' own death is drawing nearer. It would mean a real betrayal for me, though, not just the planned faked one. It would mean crossing the line … yet again. But the Dark Lord was actually willing to do as I asked … and he paid the price for failing, too. And what is there really left for me on the side of the Light?

I close my eyes, considering. We sit together in silence for long minutes. It is unexpectedly comfortable. The boy does not speak further, or pressure me. He simply waits patiently while I think. Waits for me to come to a decision. I have no idea how much he really knows about my role in all this, but it is clear he knows … enough. Certainly enough to come to me to propose his betrayal too. And to give me good reasons to join him.

When I open my eyes again, I meet his green gaze.

"Albus is dying," I admit to those eyes. Such a simple sentence to hold a profound betrayal, even though the boy likely knows the fact itself already.

He simply nods. "I know."

He also knows I just committed myself to do as he asked. I can see it in his eyes. And he accepts it, with another simple phrase. Such subtlety, such understanding, hidden underneath Gryffindor brashness.

"He expects both of us to continue on a set path."

He nods again.

"Without that, and without him … there is _no_ opposition."

"Yes. He is gambling too much. On your blind loyalty, which is a sham. And on me being the brave sacrificial hero, which is a fake."

"Why did you go along with that image in the first place?" I cannot help but ask.

He shrugs. "It's what everyone expected of me. In a way it was … attractive. It was … a fairy tale. The unwanted, neglected young hero, who finds friendship and love through bravery. Or something sweet and rotten like that."

His eyes are much too cynical for someone so young.

"And the old man was always so taken with that construct, that he never saw the real me underneath. It was the perfect way to hide myself. But now I don't give a damn anymore. I was okay with playing the hero. It was even kind of satisfying at times. But I draw the line at becoming a martyr."

"Yes," I agree. And wonder how the last years would have played out, had I met this Harry Potter earlier. This very Slytherin Potter.

This Harry Potter, who is asking me to do yet another double-cross, and to take him with me. Who understands perfectly well that as a Horcrux, he is quite safe from the Dark Lord. And that his changing sides willingly would give him a lot of bargaining power, too.

It would essentially end this conflict. The Dark Lord is poised to take over the ministry and Hogwarts anyway. Without Dumbledore and Harry Potter, the opposition would be left in total shambles. And with Potter openly on the Dark Lord's side … it would crumble to the point of non-existence. So a few reasonable requests from the boy to temper the Dark Lord's wrath, such as to reign in his worst followers, and what promises to be a bloody war could turn into a fairly bloodless takeover.

And if the Dark Lord was then further reminded of his _old_ plans to change wizarding society, such as forced assimilation of the muggle-born rather than their murder, and increased separation from muggles instead of their mindless slaughter … yes, I can see that play out. He would also likely accede if the boy wished for certain people to be spared, at least if they promised to stop fighting in return.

It is all in the hands of the teenager sitting across from me.

"You realise there will be no turning back, though? You cannot afford second thoughts once this is started."

He nods solemnly. I pinch the bridge of my nose, thinking hard on how to proceed.

"For now, we do nothing. So you have some time to reconsider," I say, but I can see in his eyes that he will not. I nod in acceptance.

"Once Albus is dead, I will take you to him. After I make sure he is aware of your true nature and intentions beforehand, of course." I smile mirthlessly. "He should welcome you with open arms."

"So spend your time wisely until then, to think on what you would ask of him … and what you are willing to offer in return. Depending on that, you might demand a fair bit."

"I know," he says once again, smiling wryly. And he does.

I nod. I know, too. For now, we wait.

But the die has been cast.

There will be no looking back.

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End file.
